2. Nick

“The boss wants to talk,” Maurice mutters beside me, interrupting my pinball game.

Five little words I hoped I’d never hear. Five words that are usually followed with a punishment. Either you’re sent on a truly gnarly assignment that no one else wanted to take, or you’re killed. I’m hoping, in my case, it’ll be the former rather than the latter. I know I fucked up, but I don’t think I should lose my life over a mistake.

Despite working for the Mackenzie Brothers for the past three years without incident, I’ve never even caught a glimpse of our boss, Luther Mackenzie. The most feared man in Sugardove City and most dangerous drug lord in the area.

When I first joined the business, I was a much younger man. Na?ve. Easy to manipulate and wooed with shiny things like cars and Rolexes. I didn’t question his orders and kept my head down as much as possible. Besides, I was just a glorified delivery boy, anyways. Luther is as cruel as he is generous: he gives us enormous Christmas bonuses for jobs well done, but if you cross him, or embarrass him in any way, his wrath is immeasurable.

I guess I’m about to find out firsthand.

I clear my throat and straighten my burgundy tie before nodding to Maurice, one of Luther’s most trusted bodyguards. He’s a hulking mass of a man with a bushy gray beard and gentle brown eyes that make him resemble Santa Claus rather than a mafia boss’s right arm. We’ve been good friends ever since I got hired, so the sweat forming above his brow tells me that he’s just as scared shitless for my well-being as I am.

As I take a step forward, Maurice claps a meaty paw on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Just apologize,” he mutters. I catch the whiff of the tobacco he’s been chewing, along with a few notes of Drakkar Noir. It stings my nostrils. “Grovel a little.”

I’ve seen what happens to the men who grovel. They end up with their feet in concrete and tossed over a boat in the middle of Lagoon L’Amour, never to be heard from again. I shake my head, and a few strands of my curly chestnut brown hair falls into my face.

“Don’t think it’ll matter too much. Not this time, Maurice,” I mumble, hoping he won’t hear. But he just gives me a pitying look, and I turn away to take the long walk down the hallway, past the other bedrooms. Everyone who works for the Mackenzie Brothers lives within HQ. The headquarters, which are situated right on the Silver Linings River, is an old warehouse with a dockside built sometime in the early 1920s and hasn’t had many improvements made to it since. All of the walls are made of red brick, which I love the look of. But there’s also a decent chance this building still has asbestos lingering in the walls and Luther has never brought anyone in to investigate.

The rec room was added by Maurice, because he thought we all needed a place to unwind after work. He wasn’t wrong. Since putting in all the pinball and arcade consoles, our productivity has shot up through the roof. Funny how that works.

I smooth the creases of my black dress jacket as heat floods my body. Each footstep is like trying to lift lead as I pass the arcade consoles to my right and make my way down the stairs, where three more of our guys are playing a game of billiards. They look up at me and wince. It’s unbearable, like they all feel sorry for me, like I’m already six feet under. Who knows? Maybe I am, but their pitying looks just make it feel so much worse.

When I finally stand in front of Luther’s metal door, I clear my throat again and raise my fist to rap gently against it.

“Boss? Nick Chastain here for you,” I say.

A gruff voice comes from the other side. “Enter.”. I step inside, let go of the door handle, and flinch as the door slams behind me.

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter quickly, and approach his enormous mahogany desk, which looks like it’s worth more than my car.

Luther, to my surprise, is a small-statured man with delicate features. There are crow’s feet in the corners of his cool blue eyes, and he’s completely bald. He’s also not dressed like the rest of us in suits, ties, and polished shoes. He’s wearing a Daft Punk T-shirt. No jacket. No tie. He’d fit right in at a tech company in Silicon Valley, not as the boss of the city’s largest and most influential crime syndicate.

I lick my lips nervously as he gestures to the chair in front of the desk and says, “Sit,” in a voice so soft I almost can’t hear him. Not wanting to piss him off more than he already is, I sit down and place my hands in my lap and immediately start picking at my fingernails.

“Hello, s-sir,” I stammer, and clench my jaw when I realize I sound like a prepubescent boy in the principal’s office. Get it together, man. You are thirty-three years old, not twelve. You’re not dead yet. Now all you need to do is convince him not to kill you.

Luther rests his chin on the tops of his hands and leans forward. “Nick Chastain,” he says, then looks down at a yellow folder open to a paper with my photograph clipped to the top. “You’ve been with us three years and thirty-five days.”

I’m not sure what he wants from me, so I simply say, “Y-Yes sir. That’s correct.”

His gaze meets mine. I can’t read the expression on his face because there is none. He’s completely unreadable. Part of me wishes he’d get up and start screaming at me instead, because this is torture. Maybe that’s the whole point. Let me stew until I can’t take it anymore.

“You’re thirty-three? No wife, no kids?” The question doesn’t sound like he’s waiting for me to answer, because he has all my details sitting right in front of him, so I don’t say anything this time. “No college degree, either.”

God, what is he getting at? No, I don’t have any ties or formal education. I’m a loser. A nobody. Nobody who would mourn me if I died. Not even a fucking dog waiting for me with a wagging tail at the end of a long workday.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, his voice flat and almost soothing, like he’s going to suddenly ask me to inhale slowly and count to three for a guided meditation exercise. If only.

I nod. “Yes, sir,” I mutter, unable to look him in the eye while I answer him. Shame crawls into every part of my body. “I … I really fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You did,” he answers swiftly, and that’s when I notice his hands. They’re trembling. He’s on the verge of losing his cool, even though he’s wearing his best poker face right now. “Because of your sloppiness at the drop point, the cops now have three of our men. Men who are on the newer side. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you why that’s a problem for us. For me.”

Men who would squeal the second a real interrogation started, basically. I know what he’s getting at. My throat tightens as he picks up my file and drops it into the trash can beside his desk. A lump forms in my throat, and my chest tightens.

I’m fucked. Royally fucked.

“Because you left the drop off point before you were supposed to, because you were … what was the excuse you gave the others? You got scared? Because you got scared, our family is in danger. Real danger, Nick. People are going to die,” he says, his voice still as unaffected as before. Sweat runs down my forehead and palms as the room suddenly gets three degrees warmer. It’s sweltering in here, despite the air conditioner blasting in the corner.

“This does not make me happy, Nick,” he says, then pushes himself to stand. He’s only five foot five, but he may as well be a grizzly bear right now. I swallow thickly and rub my palms together. “So, I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself. What happened? And please don’t tell me the same shit you told the others. We all get scared in this line of work, and you’ve been at this for three years. You’ve done more difficult work for us in the past. So, what made this time so different?”

I look down at my hands as my stomach flip flops violently, threatening to upend my dinner of orange chicken and broccoli. He’s right. I didn’t just get scared. I got furious. Rule number one of working for the Mackenzie Bros … never ask questions. Keep your head down and do what you’re told. For the past three years and thirty-four days, I followed the rules.

Didn’t ask questions, not even when my conscience was imploring me to quit and go find work elsewhere. But the money … fuck me. The money’s been too good. And my landlord keeps raising my rent, and with a credit rating as bad as mine, there’s nowhere else I can go. What choice did I have but to play ball with some of the worst people in the city?

But then I got curious. I peeked inside the briefcase and found Stim—the street drug that’s been a plague on Sugardove City’s residents for the past five years. My mother was addicted to it. And despite trying to get her help, she overdosed and … and she died in my arms. The only person left in the world who cared about me. Gone.

I vowed never to get involved in the shit, just like I won’t deal in heroin, cocaine, or anything harder than marijuana. I might be working as a gopher in the mafia, but I have my limits. I have ethics, and I’ll stick to them until I die.

I left the briefcase on the docks and took off into the night. And when three of our guys realized what happened and tried to salvage the situation, a patrol picked them up, along with the briefcase full of Stim.

Last night’s split decision to drop the briefcase and run probably just cost me my life, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—keep working for people who did what the Mackenzie Brothers did. I might not always say my prayers or go to church on Sundays like my grandma wanted me to, but I’m not about to damn my own soul just to keep myself from living on the street.

“I looked in the briefcase,” I sigh. Somehow, just saying it out loud feels like dropping a baby grand piano from my shoulders. I’m relieved, though I shouldn’t be. No, I should be on my hands and knees, begging this man to forgive me for breaking one of the cardinal rules of the family. Don’t get curious. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

Luther walks around the desk and stands directly behind me. I don’t turn around. “You looked inside the briefcase. And I take it you didn’t like what you found?”

I don’t hesitate before saying, “No, sir. Stim is a terrible drug that ruins countless lives, including my mother’s. I can’t in good conscience deal in it.”

Hurting other criminals like myself? Fine. We knew what we were getting into. Dealing marijuana. Yeah, whatever. It’s going to be legalized soon anyways, so that’s not going to be an issue for much longer. The gambling hells, the strip clubs? I like gambling hells. I love strip clubs.

“So, you dropped it and ran because what you saw, what you weren’t supposed to see, went against your personal moral code.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t say anything. Instead, he walks to the door and cracks it open to mutter something to someone outside. Three burly bodyguards, including Maurice, come in and grab me by my shoulders. I don’t resist. There’s no point. As they drag me down the hallway, I see the flicker of regret in Maurice’s dark eyes. Then he looks away, setting his jaw.

I hang my head as they drag me outside and toss me into the backseat of the black Rolls Royce waiting across the street.